We Hardly Knew Ye

A few months ago, we gave into our insistent, whimsical daughters and let them spend their combined allowances on a rodent.  To be more precise, we adopted a gerbil from a local big box pet store and bought the cage, etc., etc., which all added up to considerably more than their combined allowances. 

We have battled mice in the house in the past, cursing their excrement and the filth they leave behind, but this time was different.  This time we paid handsomely for a rodent to live in our house.

Charley intently watches the new arrival from the car

There were a few problems with our new adoptee: one, he was a rodent and made the things rodent make, which stink; two, the children loved to let him run around their rooms and beds, while he in rodent oblivion continued making the things that rodents make; and three, and most importantly, we own a Jack Russell terrier.  

Oh, he's a cute little guy--like a cartoon mouse

And now we interrupt this message for this wee history lesson:  A long, long time ago in Jolly Old rodent-infested England, the queen had a problem--little black nuggets in her bread pudding--NOT perfectly lovely.  So she called together her breeders, tented her fingers in concentration, and said, "Wouldn't it be lovely if you could whip up a little white dog with a cropped tail who is obsessed with the prompt disposal of vermin?"  And the clever breeders tried this and that until they came up with the Jack, a cute, short-haired, spotted, handsome rodent-killing machine. 

If Charley were a raccoon, we had brought in a chicken; if Charley were a robin, we'd brought in a big, fat, juicy worm.  In any case, when we brought the gerbil home, Charley looked at us as if to say, "You've got a big problem here, and I can take care of it.  WHY WON'T YOU LET ME?"

Shaking, whining with anticipation, Charley approaches his prey. . . .

Fast forward several months to this e-mail I wrote this morning to my dear mother-in-law:

Speaking of Charley, I must tell you of his latest exploits.  The other evening I was over at the rental house whacking back the wisteria when I received a phone call from Martin, who had reached home with Merry.  It was Friday evening and we were due for happy hour and pizza soon so my heart fell when I heard him say, "I don't know when this happened today but. . . ."

He went on to describe a scene of rodent terror:  the door from the family room to the garage had been left open.  Charley had taken his time that morning, following at my heels as he usually does, but as soon as I left that afternoon, he'd given himself to serious, overdue work.  The gerbil's cage was chewed clean through; there was fluffly bedding all over, and the gerbil had been executed and was lying on the garage floor, without a doubt dead as a doornail.

I had a mixture of emotions as I heard this tale: I felt sorry for the gerbil; relieved that he was gone after all a long season of neglect from my children, who had less than a passing interest in him anymore; and somewhat satisfied for Charley, who has been dying to take care of our rodent problem ever since the gerbil arrived and has been confused and hurt that we have not let him render the services for which he was bred.  Truly, though, when I imagine the sheer terror the poor little creature experienced as Charley went methodically through the paces of his demise, I am sorry that the gerbil did not have at least a more sporting chance at escape.  It was not the end any of us imagined, though it did seem inevitable after a brief season of Jack Russell/rodent cohabitation.

The girls were sad, but not overly so; they all deal with grief in their own way.  Merry, who had been the only one really to take care of the poor fellow, shed some tears and helped Martin bury him in the backyard, where they said a few words and made a cross out of sticks.  Elspeth, to whom Martin told the sad tale after soccer the next day, shouted an incredulous "WHAT?!"  and then began to glean as many of the sordid details as possible--was the death quick, what did the rodent look like, did Charley eat the insides or not.  And Bea, when told that afternoon about the poor "gerbiler" as she used to call him, said, "Why didn't we give him to Charley earlier?  Charley's been wanting him all the time!" Then she questioned whether her sisters had cried, and when she was told that they had, she shed a few tears, sniffled, and then said, "How about we get a RAT?"

And Charley, who has been walking taller and prouder since the whole incident, thought a rat was a great idea.  But Martin and I, who suspected that the gerbil was an experiment doomed to failure from the beginning, emphasized that we are a one-pet, one-dog family.

We should warn poor Isabella [my niece who visited] that there will be no gerbil on her return visit.  I think she loved that rodent more than any of my girls ever did.  We do, however, have some equipment that she can have if she is ever allowed to follow her dreams and get a gerbil of her own!  Poor little guy--he was awfully cute.  But he was also incredibly dirty and smelled constantly, as rodents do.  Martin whispered to me last night, "I think Charley did us all a favor, actually" to which I replied in the affirmative.

 Dear gerbiler, we hardly knew ye.